


Antivenom

by Lywinis



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-23
Updated: 2014-03-23
Packaged: 2018-01-16 17:40:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1356115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lywinis/pseuds/Lywinis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Suck the poison, pull it forth, spit it to the stony ground. You'll never draw enough and it will kill you too.</p>
<p>And I'll survive, paranoid<br/>I have lost the will to change<br/>And I am not proud, cold-blooded fake<br/>I will shut the world away<br/>-- Breaking Benjamin, "I Will Not Bow"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Antivenom

India was hectic, the bustle of the city of New Delhi a counterpoint to the almost silent nature of the jungle at times, when something large and predatory passed through. Bruce closed his eyes as the hut he was staying in was surrounded by the chitter and chirp of insects and birds. It was better than flames and screams. Harlem was six months ago, still fresh, and he worked each day to scrub it from his memory, trekking down to the village at dawn to help work in the fields. He returned each night, exhausted and able to fall into a dreamless sleep.

It helped.

When the villagers discovered that he was a doctor, they were even more welcoming. He was called upon at all hours, always with the polite nod and bob of a respectful farmer with a sick child or wife or mother. He treated scrapes and bruises, nursed sicknesses and set broken bones. He was the savior of many babies, breathing life into one that was stillborn to the joy of his mother. He was paid in food, or a new sewn shirt or shoes, once with a goose that he didn’t have the heart to butcher. It sulked in his yard now, hissing at him each morning as he passed.

He lasted almost two months there; his longest stint anywhere. It was a good run, with the uneasy security of the nameless village there around his shoulders like the oppressive heat of the day. It left him drenched and sticky with sweat, even as he toiled in the fields until his bones ached with it. He learned to love how simple it was; up at dawn, in bed by dusk.

And then, one day, the rains came. With the rains came the cobras. They crawled up out of their holes to avoid drowning, and they hunted in the farmlands, preying on the mice that liked to steal the grain.

He was working in the rice fields as normal, pulling the healthy plants and harvesting the grains, his shirt soaking into his skin from the constant drizzle. A little boy of about ten shadowed him, sticking close as the children were wont to do. They loved Bruce, his soft voice and gentle hands much more comforting than their exasperated mother’s screeching at times. He also bought candies from the passing traders, which meant that he had sweets on him at any given time. It wasn’t unusual to see three or four of the village children trailing Bruce at a time.

The boy’s name was Akshay. From what little Bruce knew of the Hindu language, it meant indestructible. Bruce knew that this wasn’t the case, knew it deep down when the snake reared its head as Bruce splashed too close to where it was swimming. The hood flared open, a warning laced in black and brown. A common Indian cobra, it swayed in the water, bobbing between where Bruce and Akshay stood.

Akshay halted, eyes big and round. Bruce put out a hand.

“Be very still,” he said, his voice low. “We’re going to back away slowly so that we don’t get hurt.”

The hood followed his movements, and Bruce took a step back, keeping himself between Akshay and the snake. Akshay stepped back with the small ‘plash’ of a child’s footstep, and Bruce worked to control the fight or flight response to the snake. It would be all right. They would be all right.

Akshay tripped, falling over with a startled cry. The snake snapped forward, striking at the movement, and Bruce stepped between them, the sting of the fangs entering the skin of his forearm nothing compared to the furnace that burned him from the inside out as the Hulk manifested itself, his skin stretching as he lost control.

His yell echoed across the fields, and villagers all turned, the huddled form of Bruce Banner becoming larger as they all began to scream. The Hulk stood, the cobra clinging to his forearm. He ripped the snake away, turning to assess that the boy was all right.

The stone struck his forehead, and he snarled.

* * *

Bruce woke in the jungle, surrounded in the unfamiliar scent and sound of the moist jungle floor. His knuckles were caked in blood, and the rain mingled with the tears of grief.

He didn’t look back, just stumbled from the clearing in the pouring rain.

**Author's Note:**

> Writing Bruce is both a trial and a joy. I have freedom with him that I don't get with Phil sometimes. Steve can be just as emotionally jarring to write, however.


End file.
